The problem facing the college critic of the Theater Workshop's productions of the last three years has been two-fold. First, he must search each time for new superlatives (for each show has been better than the last, thought the plays have not all been equal) and he must restrain himself in order to retain the reader's respect. Second, he must remember (and this is hardest) that he has witnessed an amateur production put on by his fellow students. I now have this problem, "The Tempest," which opened last night, is the Workshop's master concoction. They have emptied the pans of the quicksilver talent they have been mining these past three years, mixed it with their usual painstaking care and imagination and the resulting creation is indeed pleasant, satisfying, and rare.

In presenting "The Tempest," as in the other shows, the HTW has thrown contemporary stage conventions to the winds. Crediting its audience with more intelligence than do most Broadway producers, the Workshop and its director, Albert Marre, have produced a "Tempest" that crackles with surprises, fantasies, and abandon. Everyone on the stage at Brattle Hall last night, other than Prospero, was obviously having a grand time, and that feeling was what they tried most to transmute to the audience. "We are such staff as dreams are made on" became their thesis, and they proved it. By never once allowing a touch of realism to invade their island, their patch of earth became properly ideal, enchanted.

Even Caliban, the character credited with representing man's base instincts, is translated "optimistically." As excellently played by Robert Fletcher, the deformed beast becomes neither repulsive nor depressing. His Caliban would be at home in Alice's Wonderland, or in any child's wonderland, for that matter. Though humorous throughout, Mr. Fletcher does not cheapen his character with the low comedy possibilities offered him. He is grotesque, yet wholesome; funny, but still moving and touching when need be.

Jerry Kilty, remembered for his Falstaff of last year, is back once again with a "tolerable deal of sack" by his side, and, of course, the combination is infallibly amusing. He plays Stephano, and is very ably matched by the Trinculo of David Andrews.' Together, the two romp and stomp about the stage, like two mad clowns--or is it two children inebriated only with springtime--and when joined with Caliban, it's a real howl.

The Ariel of Jan Farrand is always light, and gay, as "it" should be. Miss Farrand is wise and nimble, and keeps within her character except one time when she briefly impersonated the goddess Ceres. Her Ariel is as pleasant as her zephyr-like voice. Ferdinand and Miranda, the ideal lovers, are ideally cast and suitably played by Miles Morgan and Naomi Raphaelson. Miss Raphaelson is particularly fetching, though her voice does not carry as it should, mainly through her voice does not carry as it should, mainly through her own weak projection. The Gonzale of Donald Stevens was well done.

The one disappointing performance in "The Tempest" was Thayer David's Prospero, which came as a surprise after his previous work. The fault may be the director's, (or my own, since it is a matter of interpretation rather than ability) but I cannot imagine Prospero as the dry, weary, manipulator that Mr. David makes him. Why shouldn't God, or Shakespeare, or whoever Prospero is, have as much fun as anybody? Since he is responsible for all the goings-on which produce such gaiety, why should he not be amused? Even Buddha smiles. Mr. David's magic-man is stern and inhuman, and for me, unacceptable. His performance is polished, however, and admirably consistent.

Though the overture is too lengthy for its purpose, the new score of Lukas Foss blends in smoothly with the production, though not so gay as it is. The songs are particularly good. One very amusing scene, though brief and extraneous, is the visitation of the three goddesses to the newly-betrothed couple.

"The Tempest" is probably Shakespeare's last play and it is certainly the last production by the Theater Workshop. The HTW has amply paid its debt to Shakespeare with this presentation. There's a spell of white-magic over Brattle Hall this week.